Shamrock Green (43 page)

‘It's my house,' said Pauline. ‘Fran's house. I don't pay rent.'

‘The girl's clearly not up to it,' Flanagan said.

‘Fran's comin' back. You're not sellin' his house.'

‘I regret to inform you, Miss Rafferty,' said Vaizey, ‘that Francis Hagarty is deceased.'

‘Nah he's not. He's – he's…'

Sylvie craned over the railing and shouted,
‘Fran's in America, Mr Vaizey. Where else would Fran be?'

The men peered up at her, their features flattened and foreshortened.

‘Who is that?' Flanagan called out.

‘Oh, I know who it is,' said Vaizey. ‘Show yourself, Mrs McCulloch.'

She glanced in at Sean, hesitated, then gathered up her damp skirts and hurried down the rattling staircase into the hall.

‘Who are you?' Flanagan said. ‘Do I know you?'

‘You should,' said Sylvie. ‘If you don't know me now you'll certainly know me next time, Mr Flanagan.'

‘Gowry McCulloch's wife,' Vaizey said.

‘Widow,' Sylvie said.

‘Widow?' Vaizey said. ‘Really now?'

‘Really now,' said Sylvie. ‘Didn't you know? I thought you knew everything.'

‘When was he killed?'

‘Last month.'

‘I'm sorry to hear it.'

‘Never mind all that,' said Flanagan. ‘What the devil's
she
doing here?'

‘I imagine she lives here,' said Vaizey. ‘Am I correct?'

‘You are,' Sylvie told him.

‘Good God!' said Flanagan. ‘More trouble.'

‘Oh, yes indeed, Mr Flanagan,' Sylvie said, ‘more trouble.'

She crossed the hall and joined Pauline in the doorway of the apartment. The small children within had been schooled in persecution and knew when to lie low. They would probably be hiding under the table, Sylvie thought, the elder hugging the younger. Pauline groped for Sylvie's hand.

‘How long have you been resident here?' Vaizey asked.

‘Since the Shamrock went up in smoke.'

‘Both of you here together. How curious.'

‘What's curious about it?' Sylvie said.

‘All Hagarty's eggs in one basket,' Vaizey said.

‘Waiting,' Sylvie said, ‘for his return.'

‘Oh, come now,' Vaizey said. ‘You of all people know the score.'

‘Do I?' said Sylvie. ‘What is “the score” then, sir?'

‘You can't stay here,' said Flanagan. ‘I won't have McCulloch's wife in one of my houses.'

‘You know that Hagarty isn't coming back,' Vaizey said.

‘Is he not?' said Sylvie. ‘Why is that?'

‘Because he's – no longer with us.'

‘You mean he's dead,' said Sylvie.

‘Of course he's dead.'

‘Then where's his body?'

Vaizey blinked.

‘If Fran's dead, where's his grave?' Sylvie pressed. ‘If he's dead, why did you tell my friend Miss Rafferty that he's selling his properties in Dublin?'

‘He left debts,' said Flanagan, quickly.

‘Debts? Really! And when did an officer of the Special Branch of the Metropolitan Police become a debt collector?'

‘Oh, this is nonsense,' Flanagan said. ‘Utter nonsense.'

‘I trust you're not going to be spiteful, Mrs McCulloch?' Vaizey said.

‘Spiteful? After what you put me through,' Sylvie said, ‘what reason could I possibly have for being spiteful?' She took a pace forward. ‘I suppose you might say you were just doing your job when you murdered Fran, but what sort of job is this, I wonder? Is it your job as a policeman to lie to poor widows and rob them of what's rightfully theirs?'

‘Hagarty cheated me,' Flanagan said. ‘Tell her, Harold. Tell these stupid women just how their hero came by his cash. He cheated everyone who trusted him. It wasn't his money that purchased this house. It was mine.'

‘Yours,' said Sylvie, ‘or his friends' in America?'

‘What do you know about our American friends?'

‘He stored guns here,' said Sylvie, ‘so if Fran chose to put the funds he received from American sympathisers into property, I see no harm in that.'

‘You're out of your depth, Sylvie.' It was the first time Vaizey had used her Christian name. ‘This house was used for the storage of arms. Consequently I can have a court order drawn up within a couple of days and have you and your friend and your children tipped out into the street.' He raised a finger. ‘Don't tell me I can't, because you know dashed well I can.'

‘Has the owner of the property no say in the matter?' said Sylvie.

‘The owner of the property is dead.'

‘The owner of the property is not dead,' Sylvie said. ‘Francis Hagarty is alive and well and on business in America.'

At last she had ruffled Vaizey's implacable self-assurance.

‘You won't get away with this,' he snapped.

‘No,' said Sylvie. ‘It's
you
who won't get away with it. What can you do to me now, Inspector? Drag me out into the yard and have one of your thugs shoot
me
in the head? No. Not now. Now there's law in Ireland. It might be military law, but it's law none the less. There are too many witnesses, too many folk to vouch for my innocence for you to get away with another murder. You'd have far too much explaining to do if the poor widow of a British soldier vanished from the face of the earth.' She stepped closer. ‘I'm a British citizen, Inspector. I've proved my loyalty by sacrificing my husband. Let me ask you again, what can you possibly do to me that hasn't already been done?'

‘Plenty,' Vaizey said.

He rubbed her skirt with his knee just as he'd done all those months ago in the nook in the Shamrock. Sylvie did not back away.

‘Show me the body,' she said.

‘Pardon?'

‘Show me Fran's body. Take me to his grave.'

‘I certainly will not.'

‘Why not?'

‘It's outwith my jurisdiction.'

‘Of course it is,' said Sylvie.

‘What's that supposed to mean?' said Vaizey.

‘You can't show me Fran's body because he isn't dead.'

‘Come now, you witnessed—'

‘I witnessed nothing,' Sylvie said. ‘The last I saw of Fran he was being bundled into a police wagon outside the Shamrock. If Fran's dead, it's up to you to prove it.'

‘I could have you summoned, make you swear under oath—'

‘That I saw an unarmed man murdered in cold blood?' said Sylvie. ‘Are you so desperate to please your friend Flanagan that you'd risk a coroner's enquiry into the circumstances surrounding—'

‘There are no circumstances,' Vaizey said. ‘Hagarty was trying to escape.'

‘So you shot him at close range in the side of the head?' said Sylvie. ‘That isn't martial law, that's just plain murder.' She was aware of Pauline's presence behind her but would not back down, not even to save Pauline's feelings. ‘Where is his body? Have you buried it where it won't be found? Did you put it in quicklime – isn't that what you do with criminals, bury them in quicklime? – or did you have it dumped at sea?'

Vaizey grunted. ‘I'm beginning to think I underestimated you.'

‘I know what you're doing: you're trying to obtain ownership of this tenement so that Mr Flanagan can add it to his other slum properties. Now either the owner of this property is dead and the property is part of the estate, or the owner of this property is on a visit to America and will return in due course. If he's dead then it's up to you to prove it. If he's not dead then you'll have to wait until he comes back before you can charge him and grab his property.'

‘Is what she's saying true, Harold?' Flanagan asked.

‘Not entirely.'

‘Some of it, enough of it?'

‘Yes,' Vaizey admitted. ‘Some of it.'

‘How long will
that
take?' Sylvie went on. ‘Years, years waiting for Fran to come back to Dublin so he can be charged. And then,' she said, ‘there will be his heirs to consider, their legal entitlements.'

‘Heirs?' said Flanagan.

‘He had sons to a wife in England,' said Vaizey. ‘Three sons.'

‘I wonder if his wife knows where Fran is?' said Sylvie. ‘I wonder if he's gone to visit her perhaps. You never can tell what Fran will do next, can you, Inspector?'

She waited for Vaizey to lay hands on her, bully her, but that wasn't his style. She sensed that she had him where she wanted him, at least for the time being. She wondered what hold Flanagan had over him, if it were simply a matter of money, of bribes, back-handers, and feathering the inspector's nest.

She had one more card up her sleeve, but would not play it just yet.

She said, ‘Will you answer a question for me, Inspector Vaizey?'

‘What question is that?'

‘Don't tell her anything, Harold. Don't say a word,' Flanagan put in. ‘It's a matter for the lawyers now.'

‘Your question, Mrs McCulloch,' Vaizey said.

‘If the owner of a property is alive, can the authorities take possession of the house – this house, our house – in his absence?'

‘Not without a court order,' said Vaizey.

‘How difficult would that be to obtain?'

‘Not very,' Vaizey said, ‘but since you and I both know that the owner is dead surely the point is moot.'

‘Yes,' said Sylvie, smiling to herself. ‘Of course, the point is moot.'

*   *   *

It was a fair old ride on the train from Wexford to the capital, but Breen Trotter didn't seem to mind. Up he charged every Sunday forenoon. With a bunch of wild flowers in one fist and a parcel of Wexford bacon in the other, he headed straight from Harcourt Street station to Endicott Street to spend three or four hours with his honey, his enchantress, Miss Pauline Rafferty.

Breen had been in love several times before. He had pursued the daughter of a factory manager for several months before she'd sent him off with a flea in his ear. Next he'd courted the daughter of an auctioneer who'd refused to squander her youth and beauty on a cattle dealer's son and had threatened to summon the constables if he didn't stop loitering at her gate. Finally he had been smitten by the widow of a blacksmith who had been kicked in the head by a horse – the smith not the widow – undeterred by the fact that two of her seven children were older than he was. That awkward passion had remained unrequited too, for the object of his affection had been too stupid to realise what a fine catch Breen would make and had married her cousin instead.

Breen was well rehearsed in falling head over heels in love and it didn't take him much longer than half an hour to fall for Pauline whom he'd encountered in what he considered all her glory with stew pots bubbling on the stove, children clinging to her skirts and a lovely wee new babby nestling against her breast.

He was aware that at least one of Pauline's children had been fathered by Turk's renegade friend Fran Hagarty, had heard all about Fran Hagarty from Turk. He regarded the man as a bit of a hero and was excited by the prospect of following in the great man's – ahem – footsteps and taking on the great man's – ahem – burden now that the great man was no more. The only problem was that Pauline seemed unwilling to admit that Fran was no more. She puckered her lips and frowned whenever Fran's name was mentioned, but otherwise she was as sweet as honey and made Breen welcome when he happened to drop by at Sunday dinner time.

By mid-summer she was flirting with him quite openly and trusted him enough to let him hold the baby while she served stew, sliced lumps off a flank of boiled mutton or dispensed the floury potatoes that had been slyly nudging each other in the pot for a half-hour before his arrival.

‘He's infatugated with her,' Maeve said. ‘What a clown!'

‘Why do you say that?' Sylvie asked, surprised.

‘He can do better than Pauline.'

‘I thought you liked Pauline?'

‘I do,' said Maeve. ‘But…'

‘But what?'

‘Well for one thing, she has all those children.'

‘I think Mr Trotter likes children.'

‘Imagine comin' all the way up from Wexford just to see Pauline.'

Maeve was a good deal less cynical than she pretended to be. She was probably a little jealous of the woman downstairs, Sylvie thought, for although she had received a letter – just one – from Turk in Stafford jail, she was dependent on Breen for up-to-date news and felt that Turk's brother should be giving her more of his attention.

‘Would you not go all the way down to Wexford to see Turk?'

‘That's different,' Maeve said, hotly.

‘What's different about it?'

‘I don't – I haven't had babies.'

‘You're too young to have babies.'

‘I am not.'

‘Yes you are,' Sylvie insisted. ‘Any man who gave you a baby would be arrested on the spot.'

‘For what? Oh, for
that.
Really?'

‘Really,' said Sylvie.

Maeve's precocity had its limits, it seemed, and she was quiet for a while after that, brooding on the mysteries of conception. Out in the street playing with Algie, Maeve was still a child. Indoors she demonstrated shrewdness and shyness in equal measure. What Maeve needed was a father, a strong man at the centre of her life, Sylvie thought, just as she needed a husband to protect her from her own cleverness.

When she saw Breen Trotter hastening up Endicott Street she was tinged by concern that one day she would be driven to take on a man like that. She wondered about the bachelors in the rooms round about, though, why they remained uninterested in getting to know her better. True, they were quiet men, wrapped up in earning a living and Fran had chosen them for their rectitude. Even so, when she came upon one of them on the stairs, she couldn't help but wonder why they didn't flirt with her.